No Artificial Caring
by RadiantHero
Summary: A small, silly drabble written for my Marth friend on tumblr. Because nothing is better when you're sick, than some cheesy goodness. (Modern AU) Can be seen as platonic, or romantic; whatever floats your boat, I didn't go out of my way to make it set one way or the other.


It wasn't often Ike got sick; honestly, when you used to put bugs in your mouth as a child, and then frequently eat food off the ground as an adult, it tends to lend itself to a pretty strong immune system.

At least, that's what Ike liked to think. Which also led to him forgetting that he was _not_ invincible to getting sick.

One too many jogs in the rain, not taking off wet clothes when he ought to before hunkering down on the couch or the bed for a nap. Eating more junk than he should simply because he was oftentimes too lazy to go to the store for proper food, or didn't have the motivation to actually cook a meal instead of rolling through a few drive-thru's. Staying up later than intended because "whoa, there's another boss after this one? BRING IT ON" or "it is too possible to marathon the entirety of Harry Potter in one day just watch me".

All of it just ended up colliding together in a nice, big, dreadful mess.

Ike woke up, splayed out on the couch with one leg swung over one of the arms and his head resting on top of an empty Cheetos bag. Yawning, his mouth felt dry – probably because he'd grazed his way through their chip supply last night – and swallowing was surprisingly difficult to do. It hurt, too, his throat feeling sore and raw.

That was odd…Maybe he'd simply gone overboard while playing his game, hollering and whooping whenever he was on the winning end of things.

But his nose felt all stuffed up as well, and not in the "just woke up" sort of way either.

Telling himself it was nothing big, he probably just needed some fresh air, Ike peeled himself off the couch and slunk off to have a shower before starting the day. Or, what was left of it; blessedly, it was the weekend, and he didn't have another shift at work until Monday.

The shower did a bit to clear up the congestion, but his throat was still bugging him when he got out and dressed. And by the time he had gotten the living room all cleaned up, Ike had a throbbing headache and sweat was clinging to the back of his neck. Which was weird, because it hadn't been that much work, and it certainly wasn't hot.

Ike blamed it on the shower. Nothing more than lingering dampness from not toweling off well enough.

By the time Marth stopped by, having comfortably finished whatever he'd been working on for his _many_ extracurricular activities, Ike had ended up back on the couch; curled up into as small a ball as someone his size could manage, face tucked claustrophobically into a corner of the furniture.

One look and it was clear to the other that Ike was ill, even with whining protests to the opposite from the ball of discomfort on the couch. It took only another moment more, and Ike was covered in several blankets, and Marth was doggedly searching the kitchen for something warm to make for them both to eat.

"Mmm, don't have any soups…," Ike mumbled from underneath a layer of cotton fluff, mouth and nose all but buried under the blankets he'd been given.

He knew soup was a comfort food to a lot of people when they were sick, but Ike really only got that feeling when it was a soup that his mother made back when she was still alive. It was nice and substantial – made with a lot of Gallian ingredients, if he remembered right – but she never wrote any of her recipes down, so Ike didn't have the foggiest idea of how to replicate it.

"…Can you make mac and cheese?" Ike asked abruptly, seeing Marth give him a look that clearly said 'that's not healthy or incredibly good for you right now'.

A few solid minutes of pleading, sad puppy dog eyes and in the next ten minutes or so, the two were digging into separate bowls of cheesy noodles. Marth ate his slowly, because that was simply how he did things, but Ike was eating staggered because he felt a tad bit nauseous.

"You're…You're cheesy, you know that?" Ike spoke up, playing his fork around in the pile of artificial gold. "And warm. And you make me…feel real good. You're like – like mac and cheese, Marth."


End file.
